


It's My Death, My Rhythm, My Arithmetic

by seperis



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovery is less than one percent; everyone knows that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's My Death, My Rhythm, My Arithmetic

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: Loosely tied with the three responses to this comment here. Title chosen by aivilo_18 from The She by The Breeders. It's actually eerie how appropriate it is. I mean, eerie. Thanks to aivilo_18 for being really encouraging, svmadelyn for reading it through and transtempts for poking me about it.
> 
> Please see notes at the end for more explicit warnings.

_The first time, it was two weeks and he was two hours late; he hadn't meant to be. He hadn't known how much it would hurt._

It was too much for one body to have held, even Kris, slumped against the wall, bare feet slipping on the blood-smeared floor of their bathroom, walls painted in long rusting streaks, plaster gouged out inches deep between brighter splashes like sunbursts, the mirror scribbled over in minors like a guitar that had learned to scream. Even the overwhelming smell of it, sweet and metal-sharp, couldn't distract him from the way Kris looked up at him, skin bleached colorless as moonlight, a silver-handled paring knife stolen from the kitchen sliding between wet fingers as he said, confused, "I keep trying and trying and it doesn't work. It never works."

Kneeling in a cooling puddle, Adam eased him off the blood-soaked rug and into his lap, shaking at the sight of a network of open wounds like a map of the LA highway system, new and fading and almost-closing that stretched from shoulder to wrist. Kris had hummed softly, watching without interest as Adam took the knife from the small, sticky hand and shoved it through the floor. "What the fuck were you trying to do?"

Kris frowned uncertainly, reaching up to draw one rust-stained finger over Adam's mouth. "Die. Why can't I remember how?"

* * *

There are ways to deal with the sensory overload of touring when you're still a public persona and not hiding in the fucking basement like a rat; sunglasses, ear plugs, a radical change in fabric choice, and incense to cover the riots of scents that come from pretty much everywhere. Adam has his second tour starting in only months and coming out to perform with Megan had been both educational and frustrating as fuck; he's gone through half of Megan's incense collection trying to find something that masks the disorienting mix but doesn't induce nausea, which hey, he didn't know he could still _feel_. Christ.

Getting out yet another stick (vanilla cherry patchouli? What the ever loving fuck?), Adam nearly drops the lighter at the flare of familiar frustration and black rage, as bright as a beacon and almost close enough to touch.

Straightening, Adam feels the post-performance lethargy vanish, pulling out the earplugs absently as he goes out the door, ignoring the sudden cacophony of noise backstage to try and narrow down the location. It's been a long time and tracking like this is frustrating with all the sensory input he has to work through, but he can pick up the faint sound of raised voices, one angry and pleading, desperate, a familiar staccato heartbeat and quick breathing, then a hard shock of pain and fear and oh, fuck that shit, security obviously hadn't been paying attention when they were told exactly what to do if Kris Allen showed up, and touching him hadn't ever been part of it.

Rounding the corner, Adam sees Kris trying to jerk free of security guards twice his size and just about succeeding on sheer rage, but when bloodshot brown eyes flicker up and see Adam, he stops fighting, oblivious to everyone and everything else, even when the big hands squeeze around his wrists so tightly they grind bone on bone.

They should have paid attention. "Let him go and get the fuck out of here."

Kris doesn't so much as look at security as they loosen their grip, backing away with quick, mumbled apologies, faces hopefully averted, like there's any chance that Adam won't remember what just happened and who was responsible. That's for later, though, not when Kris is standing _right there_, and even though he's here now, there's every chance this fuck up shocked him out of whatever got him this far in the first place.

"Hey," Adam says softly; taking even one step might mean Kris vanishing for another long year, but Christ, he wants to. Knowing the consequences that Kris would suffer in theory is a world away from seeing the brutal reality reflected in Kris' body: so thin he just escapes emaciation, half-circles like fresh bruises beneath red-rimmed eyes, the faint shivers of exhaustion and habitual chill chasing each over across his skin beneath the ridiculously oversized flannel, wincing from even the dimmed lights here. It pisses him off all over again, to think that Kris _chose_ this, that living like this was preferable to coming back. "Not looking so hot these days, baby."

"I--" Kris stops, the glazed eyes clearing briefly; looking around the newly deserted hall, he shakes himself, crossing his arms with another faint shiver despite the layers of shirts; Adam remembers seeing him from the stage, bundled up against a night still summer-hot, surrounded by girls and boys stripped down to glittery tank tops, sweating gleaming on every inch of visible skin. To someone who knew what they were looking at, it was as good as a billboard. "I don't--don't know what I'm doing here?"

Biting his lip, Adam thinks vicious thoughts at security for stopping him when he was so close, at whoever he's been with that didn't do shit to take care of him all this time, but mostly at himself for letting this happen at all. Slowly, Adam unfastens one of his bracelets, and Kris' eyes widen and fix on the skin of his wrist with unwavering attention; oh, he remembers this, stumbling a step forward before catching himself on the wall with one trembling hand, and the yearning on his face hurts, because he can have anything he wants, Adam would give him _anything_, he has to know that, and he'd still stayed away and if Adam hadn't been here tonight….

"Is--" Kris licks his lips, blinking rapidly before he tries again. "Is everyone--how is everyone?"

Of course, very Kris. "They're fine. Worried about you." Kris eyes flicker down. "Hey, don't do that. Look at me. Baby, you can't go on like this."

"Managed this long." Kris cracks a faint smile, as much amusement as agreement. "I'm just--I'm so tired. It never--nothing ever _stops_."

"You knew what would happen," Adam answers softly, leaning against the wall. "What's the recovery rate again?"

Kris' head snaps up, the faintest pink coloring his cheeks. "Fuck. You."

"Yeah." Adam tilts his head, watching Kris take another step before stopping himself, mouth tight. "That, too."

Kris' eyes unfocus, fingernails digging into the concrete; Adam can smell the blood rising up, protobruising forming beneath the skin of his fingertips. Kris is a full-sensory drug all on his own, and Adam doesn't think he can be blamed for never finding anyone that compared.

"I don't want to be here," Kris whispers; he doesn't even believe himself. It would have been true six months ago, though, and maybe even three; maybe it would have been true if Adam had done anything else but wait and let Kris work it out for himself.

"Tell me the recovery rate."

Kris turns, slumping against the wall, sinking toward the floor with the inevitability of gravity, like surrender when you realize that even if you had a choice, you'd still want to. "Less than one percent."

Adam pushes off the wall, watching Kris track him until they're only inches apart. Kris tilts his head back tiredly; he's never been intimidated by height or strength or even his own sense of what Adam is. Crouching, Adam reaches out, cupping the too-thin jaw, eyes narrowing when Kris flinches. "You'll love what I've done with the place since you left," Adam whispers, stroking gently. "Basement's all done, just for you. You'll have to tell me what you think when I take you home; I'm open to suggestions."

Kris smiles slowly, bloodless lips stretching like cheap plastic. "I always wondered if you even realize how much you've changed. Do you? Do any of you?"

Adam pulls back, rubbing his fingers together at the coolness clinging to them from Kris' skin. It's not true, he hasn't changed, but Kris never did know what was best for him. "I can leave you here if you want," he offers. "No one will bother you anymore, and you can find your way back out."

"The funny thing is," Kris whispers, smile fading, "nothing worked, and I tried everything. I know I used to--that there was a reason to try. I just don't remember it anymore. Do you?"

That's almost enough to make Adam forget the anger altogether; he can't help touching him, and this time, Kris doesn't flinch away. "Baby, why are you doing this to yourself? Who let you get this bad?"

"You think I'd let _anyone_\--" Kris' eyes feather shut, skin nearly transparent, eyelids a roadmap of tiny, pulsing capillaries, matching the soft blue veins at his temples, prominent beneath skin as fine as paper. "You did this to me, no one else could ever--I didn't _want_ anyone else to--God, do you want me to _say_ it?"

Adam won't make him beg, not this time. He won't even make him ask. "I know." Adam runs his knuckles down Kris' throat, listening to the soft hitch of Kris' breath, the quickening pulse beating against his fingers like a caged bird, frantic for an escape it shouldn't even know to want; he can afford to be gentle now. "Come on," he murmurs, straightening. "Time to go."

Kris doesn't move for a second, eyes opening and bright with terror and mistrust and everything that kept him running for far, far too long. Then, slowly, he extends one thin hand, and that's enough, that's more than enough, that's everything.

He feels too light to be more than a shadow or a memory; pulling him into his arms, Adam takes a surprised breath at how small he feels, so much more than he remembers, all fragile bones and too-human frailty, but still Kris, and fuck, he's _missed him_ and until now, he couldn't admit just how much.

"That's it," Adam says when Kris tentatively wraps his arms around him, tight, tight. "I'll take care of you; I'll take care of everything."

* * *

_The second time, it was three weeks and he'd been six hours late; this time he'd meant to be. He'd thought to stay away longer, as punishment and reminder both, but he'd forgotten how much it hurt and he couldn't stand for Kris to feel like that, not ever._

The fire had taken half the house before it was stopped; Kris had been sitting in the middle of the bed in a circle of wet grey ash and soaked, smoldering wood, plaster falling around him like a blanket of fresh snow, one narrow foot stretched out in front of him with the steel cuff untouched, chain trailing uselessly to what had once been a wall. The burns are nearly gone.

Adam had thought he'd stripped their room of anything Kris could have used, but then again, he'd never been a Boy Scout. Kris had smiled when he tossed him the rock that had decorated their dresser for days and it's not like Adam would have known flint on a glance.

"I know the statistics," Kris had told him, eyes wide and almost clear. "I just don't think I remember how to care."

* * *

No one's around on the way back; someone was paying attention and cleared the area, which is good because he doesn't want to deal with any interruptions. Kris curls up in a corner of the couch, knees drawn up against his chest, shivering and quiet as Adam locks the door. Sending off a quick text to Megan to see him before she goes out tonight, he drops the phone on the dressing room table and then Kris looks up, eyes wide and still-terrified and that's not acceptable, not now.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he says, easing down on the edge of the couch, pressing his thumb against the too-fast pulse. Kris shudders all over, eyes squeezing shut like it hurts, then he's in Adam's lap, mouth soft against Adam's and sweet even now, frantic and restless and oh yeah, he's not the only one that missed this. "I'll do so much better this time."

Kris makes a helpless sound and _bites_, dull-edged teeth sinking into his jaw, grinding down against the bone until Adam jerks his head back and licks roughly into his mouth, holding him still for it, that pretty mouth and the way he gives it up like he breathes. Abruptly, Adam tastes copper and iron against his tongue and jerks back, surprised; he hasn't lost control like that since--well, Kris, come to think.

Tilting Kris' head back, Adam draws his thumb over the bloody lip and licks it clean as Kris groans, cock hard beneath the thin, worn jeans. Adam catches his lip between his teeth, finding the tiny cut, barely a scratch, licking to open it just a little more, wanting one more taste, then reaches back to pull Kris' hand from under his shirt, pressing his thumb against the excited thrum of his pulse.

"You don't want--"

"I think," Adam answers, taking the leather bracelet from his pocket, "I've kept this for you long enough." Pressing his lips against the soft skin, Adam buckles it on, then takes out his knife, flicking the blade out. Kris stops breathing, eyes fixed on the sharp edge hungrily as Adam cuts his own wrist open, tangling his free hand in Kris' hair and easing him toward the bright flow of new blood. "You need this more than I do."

He's had Kris before; the tiny bite was more than enough to reopen the connection in its entirety, and then Kris is greedily licking away the spill of blood before his mouth fixes on the cut, _starving_. Christ, _Adam_ can feel it: a cold, endless burn like acid lacing through every vein that never stopped no matter how much time had passed or what Kris did, followed by Kris's helpless shame, humiliated by his own relief as it slowly eases off. He _can'tstopmyself_, God _forgothowthisfeels_ as he leans his head against Adam's shoulder, _missedthis_ and, almost subliminal, barely a thought, _adamadamadamplease._

"There we go," he murmurs, nuzzling Kris' hair before wrapping an arm around his waist and gathering him closer, feeling the constant shivering begin to taper off, the constant sense of cold easing. "That's it, baby, take whatever you need."

He hasn't done this with anyone since Kris, and he'd forgotten how this felt, how amazing it was to have unfettered access to Kris, how easy it was for them like this. Stroking his hip, Adam feels the hunger easing into a softer burn, not quite sated but easily bearable, even welcome, the hazy contentment growing up around it, blurring months of misery and anger and grief and loneliness. He's almost boneless when Adam pulls him off, licking his mouth dreamily for a missed drop before nuzzling into Adam's shoulder with a deep sigh.

"Adam," he whispers, wistful and sweetly content now, and Adam catches his breath at how Kris feels about him, uncontained; he'd forgotten, somehow, how it felt for Kris to be in love with him, stripped free of the anger and terror and suspicion, just the bone deep _goodness_ of it, like coming home. "I missed you." Not just what Adam could do for him, but _Adam_ himself, and he'd known that, but--maybe he hadn't believed it, not when he couldn't feel it.

Kissing his forehead, Adam tilts his head up, the wide brown eyes glazed over and soft, the lines of strain gone entirely as he smiles up at Adam in adoration. Adam kisses his nose, giggling when Kris laughs unselfconsciously, then his too-thin cheeks and that gorgeous mouth, opening him up slow and easy, tasting him, and yeah, God, he missed him, missed _them_. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." Kris' lips brush against his neck, nuzzling softly. "They wouldn't let me through," Kris says dreamily, cheek rubbing into his shirt like a cat. "I had to--I hurt them? They didn't get back up."

Adam snorts; someone will take care of that. "Good."

"But the next ones--" Kris trails off, looking uncertain. "They grabbed me, and I couldn't--I was so tired, Adam--"

Adam reaches for Kris' arm, looking at the darkening smudges circling his wrists from someone else's hands. "After you go to sleep," Adam tells him, "I'm going to kill them. Megan will help. She's surprisingly creative. If you're good, I'll show you when we're done."

Kris nods drowsily. It'd be insanely easy to just pick him up and carry him back to the bus, but first he wants Kris out of those _clothes_; they feel wrong and smell of other people, of someone dressing him, taking care of him, that wasn't Adam. "I have no idea how you can stand to wear any of this," he says. "I mean, above and beyond being plaid. Get up so I can take it and possibly burn it."

Kris stands up obediently for Adam to unbutton his shirt, letting it slide down his arms to puddle on the floor, then the unpleasantly papery feel of the cheap t-shirt, the stiff, faded jeans and worn boxer briefs. Adam hisses softly; he can trace the last year of their lives like Braille in the bone pushing up through the thin skin.

"When's the last time anyone reminded you to eat?" The only ones here that remember or care about the necessity of food are also the ones that no longer need it, and Adam hasn't had to think like that since Kris left. Sorting through what he brought from the bus, he finds an acceptable t-shirt, pulling it over Kris' head. "I'll get you something. Do you remember what you used to like?"

"Not really." Kris sighs in sensual appreciation of the soft cotton, fingers tracing the hem absently as Adam unearths a pair of track pants that he can't actually remember buying. Balancing himself with a hand on Adam's shoulder as he eases the track pants up his legs, he murmurs, "No one ever asked."

Adam pauses at that, tying off the too-large waist before leaning in for another kiss, burying every question about the last year; he can wait for Kris to tell him himself. Stepping back, he watches Kris shove his feet into his converse with a wince; he likes seeing Kris in his clothes, always has. He loved shopping for him last time, picking out his clothes and then dressing him in them and undressing him, too; the old ones might not fit anymore, but that just means Adam can take him shopping again when they get back to LA, and that's seriously not a problem.

Kris shivers a little despite the warmth of the room, reminding him it will be a while before that dissipates entirely. Adam tucks him into a soft leather jacket as Kris leans against him trustingly, curling up beneath his arm and following him out to the bus with security carefully keeping them out of the line of sight of either the crowd or stray cameras.

Adam doesn't even realize he'd been holding his breath--which hello, he doesn't really need to breathe but it's not a habit he'll be giving up, like, ever--until they're inside the safety of the bus and Adam can tuck him into bed under every blanket he can find. "Hey," Kris says urgently when Adam straightens, grabbing for his hand, the leather bracelet dark against his skin, "don't go."

"I need to talk to Megan," he answers, but he sits down anyway, because that can wait, everything can wait. "And call Ally before she flies out here herself, if the number of texts on my phone are any indication." Kris smiles a little at that. "She missed you so much. Everyone did. They're so glad you finally came home."

"I know." Kris hesitates, uncertain. "'M sorry. That I left."

Adam strokes the mess of too-long hair, watching the lines of stress softening, until it's almost like Kris never left at all. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, easing Kris down until his eyes fall shut, slow enough not to scare him; he's learned how to do that in the last year. He's learned so much about what Kris needs; he'll do it right this time. "I'm sorry I let you want to."

* * *

_The third time, he wasn't late at all. _

The house was empty, bedroom and bathroom and den; he tracks the scent of drying blood and sharp acid to the nearly-finished basement and unlocked door, a deliberate trail dribbled through the empty rooms and over the cooling bodies of two contractors missing nothing but throats, the contents of their pockets spread out and missing nothing but keys. He opened the door on the bathroom, the first thing they'd finished, an impromptu gas chamber created from a windowless room with a bucket of bleach and ammonia perched on the sink. The floor was scattered with rust-edged broken glass and blood-stained fiberglass stripped from the naked walls, nails drying themselves to the floor, empty bottles of paint thinner and drain cleaner and even Windex when he got too desperate, and bile and clotted blood mixed with hair and unidentifiable lumps spilling from beneath the closed lid of the clogged toilet in pink and yellow-stained water.

He's not sure how long he stands there, shocked silent and shaking, staring at the mirror, three lines scratched out in blood and bile that smells of them both.

The first was this: 1, 49.9; 3, .06289; 14, 0; 30, 0.

The second was this: 92.

The third was this: I may not remember how to care, but I still remember how to want to try.

* * *

There are things that everyone knows.

Recovery is less than one percent; everyone knows that. One day is less than fifty percent; three days is point zero six two eight nine percent chance of partial recovery; threshold exposure is two weeks and no one's ever come back from that. Before Kris, the longest anyone had ever stayed away was three months after the two week threshold had been passed and recovery went to zero; Lil had been a mess when she came back. Kris had managed a year away after two weeks longer than that.

There's never been a single death; even suicide isn't an option for bodies that were stripped of their most basic instincts to sleep and to eat, much less the ability to die. That's how they were kept. Kris had known that, everyone knows that; that didn't mean he didn't damn well try.

Adam lets him sleep out the exhaustion of a year of relentless insomnia, feeling it lighten with every hour that passed until the sharp edges of the hunger Kris had long forgotten how to feel wakes Adam up. Someone had delivered food for Kris, and reluctantly, Adam eases him back up until the brown eyes flicker open hazily, mouth already curving in a pleased smile and leaning into the slow kiss that's _hello_ and _I'm sorry_ and _I missed you_.

Kris is easy like this, and it's almost like he never left at all, curling up in Adam's lap without prompting, opening his mouth obediently for every bite and licking Adam's fingers clean after, tilting his head back for a kiss to reward him when they're done. He doesn't move even when a tech comes by with one of the boys for Adam, his head against Adam's chest to watch with drowsy interest while Adam feeds off him and then sends him away, opening up for Adam to kiss him again, licking at lingering taste of iron and copper curiously.

"When you're stronger," Adam tells him when Kris frowns, _get rid of him_, "I won't need anyone else."

Kris kisses him again, licking away the taste of someone else--anyone else, he's never liked that, never--more urgent with every second until he's panting, pushing Adam back on the bed and shoving the bags aside, murmuring, "I'm strong enough now," sucking bruises into Adam's throat and grinding down on Adam's cock, "Please, I want you, I _want you_, please--"

"Fuck yes." Sitting up, Adam pins him to the mattress, stripping him to bare skin and nothing else, running his hands over every inch of slowly warming flesh, mapping the consequences of a long year away by touch in the shape of too-prominent bones and the fading ridges of now-healing scars, licking along a vivisection line that's pale pink and disappears even as he watches, sucking each nipple hard and sore, tasting the hard-shiny remains of electrical burns until he can feel them softening, fading into memories that Kris will have no reason to keep. Adam will remember them though: every one. "How could you---" he stops, tracing along his collar with shaking fingers, the marks of rope and wire and more blades than he can hope to count, and God knows what else, he tried everything, everything, and just because he couldn't die didn't mean it didn't hurt and Adam didn't feel it, didn't feel _any of it_. "You can't--you can't _do this_ to yourself, why would you want this, don't you know I--"

"I'm sorry," Kris whispers breathlessly. "I'm just, I didn't want--"

"--I'd do anything for you." Adam cups his face, kissing that soft mouth and murmuring promises he'll keep always, always, _I want to take care of you_ and _I love you_ and _I won't let anything ever hurt you again_ and _You'll never want to leave again; you won't even remember how to want to_ and Kris murmurs, "Okay" and "Yes" and "Please."

"I want--," Kris tilts his head back, gasping into the ceiling, long thighs wrapped around Adam's waist and rubbing himself off against his hip, the craving and urgency running beneath his skin like electricity as his hands go everywhere, dragging down Adam's back in jagged lines of heat, playing with the nipple rings and shuddering all over when Adam sucks on his throat to smell the blood rise up and settle beneath the surface. "Come on, come _on_, I _want you_\--"

It's so different from being human, able to feel Kris like this, knowing exactly where he wants to be touched and how, and more, how desperately he wants Adam, only Adam; there are faint, half-ashamed memories of fast and dirty handjobs in dank, blurry rooms, meeting hunters who knew what Kris was and that Kris took to bed in desperation and hating every time they touched him because they couldn't get it right, even by accident. Of course they couldn't, of course not; he'd been with Adam for a month and he should have guessed that what Adam had conditioned into him he'd never get from anyone else.

"I could have told you that," Adam murmurs in his ear, grinding down as he explores those memories, memorizing each face and each place and locking them away for later, later, when he can take Kris with him and kill them. Kris groans, cock jerking helplessly, slicking both of them. "Yeah, you like that, baby?" He'd gone with Megan to dispose of Lil's loose ends, and they'd both gone with Matt; he lets Kris see that, feel it, too, and Kris whimpers, groaning helplessly. None of them share, and Kris should have known that before he let anyone else touch him. "Of course you do," Adam croons, stroking Kris hair back and nuzzling his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You love that."

Kris nods, eyes half-open and nearly black. "Yeah."

Easing up, Adam sits back on his heels, holding Kris down against the bed, legs loosening and falling to the mattress, then Kris arches and spreads his thighs wider, _please, Adam, I want you, now, please_ and he's gorgeous, God, so easily, blatantly sexual, a perfect slut for this--_just for you_\--just for Adam, the way he was, they were, how Adam taught him to be with him.

Kris opens up for his fingers, languorous and easy, tight and perfect, just giving it up and moaning at every touch. Adam would tease him until he fell apart, but Kris deserves this for being so _good_, for coming back all on his own, and he's already there anyway, rational thought abandoned for hedonistic pleasure, exactly what Adam wants him to be. Adam licks open his mouth as he slides inside, no resistance at all, easy. "Oh God, Adam, yes," and _missedyoumissedyoumissedthissomuch_.

"Fuck," Adam breathes, leaving that addictive mouth, swollen red and puffy-soft, scraping his teeth down Kris' throat; Kris tilts his head back instinctively, offering it up, and Adam taught him that, too, stretched in a long line, pale blue arteries pulsing thick and fast beneath his skin in welcome _please Adam_. Adam licks the trail of one up to his jaw, then settles against the pulse point, feeling it throb under his lips--_yesadamplease, please_\--before he bites down and feels the flesh break smoothly, blood welling up thick and hot and sweet. Kris arches sharply, breath caught in his throat as he comes in a rush of shocked joy that Adam drags out with every beat of his heart; he tastes incredible, endorphin rich and druggingly good.

Kris' hand in his hair tightens, threading through the strands and nearly purring contentment, whining a little when Adam pulls away, licking over the wound to seal it and cleaning the faint smears of red before coming back to Kris' mouth, smiling dazedly when Adam kisses him, thrusting into the pliant warmth. "You feel amazing," Adam whispers helplessly into his mouth. "And you taste--" There's no way to describe how Kris tastes.

He could stay in this tight, perfect body forever, he wants to, with Kris clinging and radiating all that warm happiness; it's so good, so fucking _amazing_ and he can't imagine how he let Kris stay away this long, feeling the shock of heat down his spine and trying to hold it off. Kris kisses his mouth and chin and soft on his throat, soft, so sweet, _love you, please, Adam_ and then he comes groaning into Kris' skin.

Kris' thighs tighten around him, "Not yet," he whispers, sex-thick, "just stay--" and Adam grins and then reaches for his knife, cutting a narrow line just above the nipple for Kris to suck, almost coming again just feeling that, cupping Kris' head and this time, he can do so much more with Kris' wide-open mind, easing away the shame and self-hate for needing this, leaving just the happiness and satisfaction and gratitude, pleasure in how much he pleases Adam and how much Kris wants to please him and how much Kris loves this and needs it and craves it. Adam waits until he can feel the heaviness of satiation before easing Kris back to the pillow and licking away the smears of fresh blood until he can slide his tongue in Kris' mouth and taste them both, together.

"Thank you," Kris murmurs, whimpering when Adam eases out of him, slick and wet, tender and sensitive when Adam slides his fingers inside him to get them wet before smearing it over his open thighs and belly, mixing them together all over his skin so he smells right, like Adam and sex and warm pleasure. "Adam," all that helpless, hopeless love and need filling the word. No one's ever said his name like that, rich with so much meaning, protection and safety and relief and giddy hope that this is okay, _home_, where he's safe and comfortable and warm and not afraid and not alone, Adam will take care of him and take care of everything and he can stop and rest and stop and stop and _stop running_ and stop stop stop _I'm just so tired, Adam. Don't let me do this again. I don't want to remember wanting anything but you._

"Shh," Adam murmurs, feeling Kris' lips moving against his chest, soft, nudging him gently toward the sleep he still needs so badly. Last time, he hadn't been careful, but he was still so new at this and none of them had known what the fuck they were doing. Kris, like this, this is perfect, and this time, he knows what he's doing, how to _keep_ him. "You won't. I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Explicit descriptions of violence, knife-play, blood-play, past self-harm, past self-mutilation, attempted suicide

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] It's My Death, My Rhythm, My Arithmetic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/275515) by [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins), [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis)




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